


the threshold of your mind

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Hair Kink, Hair Washing, M/M, so vanilla it's lactose free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jonny waits a minute before he begins to tease his fingers through Kaner’s hair again, mussing it up more before combing it back down and Patrick just kind of sags against the headboard. He’s still staring at the TV but Jonny’s pretty sure he isn’t watching, his eyes glazed over.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 20
Kudos: 208
Collections: Hockey RPF





	the threshold of your mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title was taken from Mina Loy's [Songs to Joannes](https://oncomouse.github.io/loy/songs.html)

_ My finger-tips are numb from fretting your hair_  
_A God’s door-mat_  
_ On the threshold of your mind_

That first time, Jonny doesn’t know what drives him. Kaner is hanging out with him after a game, and there’s a stray curl that keeps stealing his attention so Jonny just—reaches out and tucks it back behind Kaner’s ear.

It doesn’t do shit to make his hair look better, but Jonny’s mind snags on how _dry_ Kaner’s hair feels. Dry and kind of scratchy, or brittle—is that what shampoo ads mean? He is sure he’s touched Kaner’s curls before, he must have, even with his gross gel matting it down, but he doesn’t remember ever being conscious of it.

That is how it begins.

It’s also how it should end but, of course, it doesn’t.

-

On the road a week later, he does it again.

Jon’s been thinking about it, not _obsessively_, but enough that he wants more empirical input while trying to figure out whether it always felt this way.

The weird thing is that Kaner just. _Lets_ him. He doesn’t twitch when Jonny digs his fingers into the mess of curls, frizzy and all over the place now that he’s omitted gel or a cap. His hair is still scratch-dry, not at all silky-soft like the hair of the girls Jonny has been with, and he is disappointed. Maybe testosterone plays its part, but he knows for a fact that Kaner washes his hair with hotel shampoo and that can’t be fucking healthy.

He worries that he’s crossing a line, touching Kaner’s head when he normally barely tolerates uninitiated physical contact, but Kaner makes a throaty noise when he wants to pull away, pushing back into Jon’s hand. 

“What?”

Kaner shrugs. He’s not looking at Jonny, eyes intent on the TV instead. Jonny can tell it’s deliberate, because Kaner rarely manages this long without eye-contact when they talk. “Feels nice, I guess.”

Jonny frowns because—This is a man who may look and sound and smell like Kaner, but Kaner rarely seeks physical contact and he _definitely_ doesn’t tell Jonny that does something well without chirping him right after.

The chirps don’t come.

Jonny waits a minute before he begins to tease his fingers through Kaner’s hair again, mussing it up more before combing it back down and Patrick just kind of sags against the headboard. He’s still staring at the TV but Jonny’s pretty sure he isn’t watching, his eyes glazed over. The way his shoulders relax is fascinating, and when Jonny gently scrapes his fingernails over tender skin, Kaner shivers. His jaw relaxes, his eyes drooping into laziness as he sighs contentedly.

_Jesus_. Jon half wishes he’d known when they still roomed together. In fact, he’s sure he can put Kaner to sleep like this; it would’ve saved him so fucking much frustration when he needed it.

-

He pretends not to notice Kaner coming into his room most evenings on the road, now. It’s more frequent than before—and rarely accompanied with bitching about Jonny’s habits that he hates (the mess, leaving his bathroom door open, forgetting to properly hang up his suit on a hanger).

Jonny has developed the theory that Kaner doesn’t like pets because he is _jealous_.

Their routine goes something like this: Kaner crawls onto the bed with him, makes himself comfortable, and then waits until Jonny touches his hair again. He gets antsy the longer Jonny holds out, looking at his hands and scratching his neck. One night, Jonny pushes him a bit too far—he waits and waits, his own fingers itching to get back into Kaner’s curls, until he finally says, “Uh, I think I’m gonna turn in early tonight. Kinda tired.”

“Sorry,” Jon blurts out, pulling him back in by his wrist and keeping him there by playing with his curls. He gets it, is the thing—he understands that voicing his desire for physical affection is difficult for Kaner.

And a couple of days later, when Jonny is online shopping for new body wash and razorblades, he stumbles across a shampoo that promises extra nutrition for dry curly hair. He’s pretty sure that’s what Kaner’s got, with all his showering and hair-washing, and puts it in his basket. It’s organic and claims it smells of citrus, and then website recommends a conditioner, and that’s how he ends up with a full set of haircare for curls.

-

He doesn’t know how to bring it up.

_Hey I got you a present_ sounds weird, and while Jonny may take good care of his grooming, he’s not the kind of guy to go dishing out advice like the guys on that Netflix show his mom loves. He doesn’t care; he _can’t_ care, not in hockey where everyone is at least a little bit disgusting all the time.

Still, he shoves the bottles in his road bag and leaves them there, figuring that an opportunity will pop up at some point. He bides his time and when Kaner comes into his room two weeks later, crawling into bed with him with his hair gelled back, he knows this is his chance.

“I’m not touching your hair with all that gunk,” he tells him.

It’s the first time he’s addressed this little thing they’ve got going on, but Kaner only shrugs.

“Tough luck.” Like he knows Jonny enjoys sticking his hands into Kaner’s hair, like Kaner doesn’t go boneless and loopy whenever he does. Like he isn’t the one dropping by Jon’s room most evenings. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Me? Nothing. You? Can go wash your hair.”

Kaner smirks, and Jonny’s stomach flops wildly. To suppress the feeling, he needs to take a deep breath. “Nah,” he says. “If you want my hair clean, you’re gonna have to wash it yourself.”

“_Fine_.” It’s out of his mouth before he can think better of it—and then he’s got to follow through with it, too.

He doesn’t _really_ question the sanity of his decision until he’s got Kaner kneeling on a towel in front of the tub, the showerhead detached and water heating. Kaner isn’t wearing a shirt and he’s bitching about the chill of the tiles against his chest. Jonny pays it no heed—he’s too busy ignoring the feelings coagulating in his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“This okay?” Jonny asks, spraying some water into Kaner’s face to make this shit more normal. He knows it won’t burn, that Kaner likes his showers a little hotter than Jonny does.

“Fuck off,” Kaner splutters.

“Great. Come on, put your head down.”

Water catches on his blond curls, weighing them down until they go slack and dark. Jonny runs his fingers through Kaner’s hair until the crackling texture goes slippery under his fingers and washes out. Grimacing, he’s glad that Kaner can’t see his face or the bottle that he grabs.

Kaner’s gonna think it’s just Jonny’s own shampoo, and it could’ve been, even that would be three steps up from whatever he puts on his head four times a day. Soon enough the scent of warm citrus fills the space and Kaner’s relaxing under his fingers. He looks like he’s praying, with his face turned down, and lets out a deep sigh when Jonny aims the spray at the back of his neck, rinsing off the last few suds there.

Maybe it is a testament to how _much_ Kaner is enjoying the process when he doesn’t comment on Jon putting the conditioner in, letting it sit for a while. He must know that the formula differs from the shampoo, creamy-soft without a lather, must realize that it _smells_ different, but he lets Jonny fuss with it and wash that out too.

To dry Kaner’s hair for him seems too much, even under the circumstances. Instead, he dumps a fluffy hotel towel over his head and tells him, “C’mon. Dry up.” From the corner of his eyes, he can see that Kaner is half-hard in his sweatpants; he ignores it, figures that that will happen sometimes, and elects to wait for him on his bed instead.

Even still damp, Kaner’s hair is softer, his curls less frizzy-dry and shiny. He’s sitting next to Jonny with his legs pulled up, a posture Jonny tries not to think about too hard. Instead he pushes his fingers through Kaner’s hair again and again, sometimes pulling a little to see the way Kaner’s jaw goes slack, and sometimes using his nails to hear Kaner sigh some more.

Like always, he unwinds right under Jonny’s fingertips, easy and quiet; he had his phone out but it lies forgotten on the night stand now, like Jonny’s touch deserves his full attention.

Jonny loves it more than he should.

-

He’s barely watching the TV. Kaner, on his belly to his left, is playing a game on his phone—Jon doesn’t think he’s scoring too well, his movements slow, stopping whenever Jonny does something he particularly likes.

He’s been trying out something new. Or—not so much _new_, but he is deliberate tonight. Kaner responds so well to his touch and Jonny is already a little breathless, half-hard in his pants and hoping Kaner won’t look up. It’s one thing for the guy getting touched to respond, but another thing entirely if it’s Jon instead.

Or—Jonny _also_. Kaner grinds his hips into the mattress each time he pulls a little, each time he gently scratches his nails over the skin behind Kaner’s ears. He listens for the soft exhalations, watches his fingers go lax around his phone.

Jonny pulls harder.

Kaner’s hips roll down again, his phone slipping from his fingers and to the floor. His fingers twist into the sheets and Jonny watches Kaner’s back muscles tense, then still, like he is fighting not to hump the bed.

_God_. Jonny wants to _see_.

He pulls again. This time Kaner groans, turning his head to face Jonny, pressing his nose to his hip.

“You should,” Jonny tells him, his voice rough and low. _Shit_. Even if his tenting pants don’t betray him, his vocal cords will. He licks his lips, clears his throat. “You _can_, I mean. If you wanna.”

Kaner makes a soft noise in the back of his throat that has Jonny’s heart beat faster, a thrill of electricity down his spine. He takes in the closed eyes, his furrowed brow, hot breath seeping through his sweatpants where Kaner has pressed close. For a moment, Kaner does nothing, and then he’s shoving his hand between his belly and the mattress.

It’s hot to see him like this; Jonny’s going lightheaded. Kaner’s forehead presses to his skin where his shirt’s ridden up, and the way that he’s working his hips into a rhythm—little rolls down that elicit cut-off moans. They get louder whenever Jonny switches up what he’s doing; gently scratching his scalp after pulling, or skirting blunt fingertips over the soft skin behind Kaner’s ear.

Jonny adjusts himself, then rests his hand on his hardon. He doesn’t really want to act without Kaner’s explicit permission but he needs the weight there, the gentle rub of his own thumb that makes him shiver. He needs to do something so he can will himself into staying still and not do something crazy.

Instead he watches Kaner’s ear turn pink, and then his cheek, his face pressing closer to Jonny until his nose smushes up against him, his lips dragging over the grey fabric of Jonny’s pants. He’s moving frantically now, his hips grinding down into his hand and moving the mattress. Jonny squeezes his own dick again and pulls Kaner’s hair; his hips jolt into the bed and Jonny sees his ass flex under the fabric, feels Kaner’s mouth rub wet and smooth over the exposed skin above his waistband as he comes, shuddering through his orgasm.

Jonny holds back a responding noise, squeezing his dick and acutely aware of the way precome smears sticky against his skin. He’s painfully aware that he’s flushed from watching Kaner get off, but he leaves his fingers in his hair, lets Kaner catch his breath. When he looks up, Jonny doesn’t look away. Kaner’s eyes flick to Jonny’s hand, still on his groin, and he smiles.

Resting his head on Jonny’s thigh, he says, “You should, too.”

“Yeah?” Jonny asks. _Fuck_. His voice is wrecked, breathless, the back of his neck prickling with sweat even as he squeezes around his cock. “And why should I do that?”

“You wanna.” Kaner glances sideways, licking his lips. “And I wanna see.”

“Jesus.” Jonny swallows, his mouth dry as he shoves his hand down his pants. He’d expected Kaner to move, or at least watch what he’s doing, but he keeps his eyes on Jonny’s face even after he pulls his dick out.

He stars with slow strokes, easily sliding his foreskin over the wet head. Seeing Kaner’s face this close to his dick fucks with his brain—he remembers the way Kaner was writhing against the sheets moments ago, but the memory takes a back-seat to fantasies of dragging his dick over Kaner’s soft lips. He thinks about Kaner’s collarbones, clearly delineated under pale skin but invisible under his soft shirt, and imagines coming all over them. He thinks about Kaner lifting his head and taking Jon’s dick in his mouth, about Kaner with his mouth open, about rubbing himself off against that wicked tongue.

Given another second or two, the thought of seeing his come spill over Kaner’s tongue would have been enough—but Kaner turns his face so cool air ghosts over Jonny’s overheating skin. He barely manages to grind out “Peeks, I’m _gonna_” before he pulses over his shirt with a low groan. His head thumps back against the headboard and Kaner’s hair slips through his fingers, soft and silky and melting into his fantasy.

He needs forever to catch his breath—far longer than being a pro-athlete warrants. Jonny’s not sure he didn’t black out because when he blinks his eyes open, Kaner has shifted away from him,. His eyes are closed and his brow smooth, no lines of worry of stress; at least he isn’t freaking out. 

Jon’s shirt is ruined, with a come-smear near his hip that can’t be his own—Kaner’s, then. It is disgusting, is what it is, and Jonny wants to scold him, but Kaner lies boneless and sleepy on the bed, his hair fanned out over the pillow, curls framing his face so he looks almost angelic and god fucking _damnit_. He can’t do it.

Instead he dips into the bathroom so he can wash his hands and take a piss, and hang his shirt out to dry. He might have to throw it out, but it seems wasteful to throw out a favourite shirt, soft and worn from use.

When he returns, Kaner has flicked off the lights but he’s still in Jon’s bed. Jonny isn’t sure whether he’s awake until he gets under the covers next to him and finds Kaner shifting closer to him—and then, like the egomaniac he is, curling fingers around Jonny’s wrist to bring his hand back up to his hair.

“Ugh,” Jonny protests.

“Mm. Sleep well.” Kaner yawns against his shoulder. His nimble fingers stretch across Jonny’s stomach, thumb rubbing soothing circles into his skin.

And it shouldn’t be this easy to give in, but Kaner makes it so difficult to be mean—when he’s soft like this, at least, pressed up against Jonny and looking so, so peaceful. “Bonne nuit,” he mutters, and ignores Kaner’s smile as always (that is to say, not at all).


End file.
